Danger
by Jinx2016
Summary: He stared up at the assassin and watched as the killer slowly yanked the trigger. Was this the end for John H. Watson? "I'm sorry, Sherlock," John said silently to himself, tears rushing down his cheeks. BANG! /Re-Written version.
1. Three Years

It's been three years since Sherlock died and left his true and loyal friend John Watson alone and heartbroken. After that day everything seemed to crash down for the blogger. He lost his muse, flat mate, and his best friend. Sherlock had left him to pick up the pieces of the disaster that followed.

John slowly shuffled from his bed to his chair that sat only inches away from Sherlock's dusty old one. He didn't bother cleaning and Mrs. Hudson couldn't bring herself to touch anything else. It all hurt too much for the both of them. He remembered coming back to Baker Street to assist Mrs. Hudson with Sherlock's things so clearly.

_He slowly made his way up the stairs to his flat, eyes scanning up the stairs. He could see the day Sherlock brought him here so vividly. Sherlock ran up ahead of him, waiting by the door for him patently before pushing the door open and revealing the messy inside of the flat. Now he was walking up these steps alone to clean it out and throw out whatever was once Sherlock's. That was what made his heart hurt the worst. He didn't want to throw Sherlock's stuff out like it didn't matter anymore or like he never existed, but he and Mrs. Hudson couldn't take the pain from looking at them anymore. Finally, he opened the door to the flat. Mrs. Hudson sat on her knees as by the fire place, holding a picture to her chest as she cried silently. John looked around. Noticing the half-filled box resting by the landlady's feet. John kneeled down by her, holding her in his arms as she cried. The picture clattered to the floor and John snuck a peak. It was one of the three of them from sometime after Christmas. John tried to throw it into the box, but he couldn't. It hurt too much._

Quickly, he shook himself. None of that! John held in his hands Sherlock's old scarf as he opened the morning paper. The old tattered scarf helped him feel closer to his friend for some reason. He could still see Sherlock pacing around the room getting ready to go on his big cases, wrapping the scarf tightly around his neck. John smiled and then sighed with sadness at the old memories. It's amazing how the little things affect us so much. John opened the paper and scanned through the gossip and rumors. It was not the case of Sherlock and Moriarty that crowded the papers like it had been for such a long while. Everyone moved on from it, except John. He couldn't understand why he could not let go. Could it be that he was so cruel to Sherlock? He had called him a machine, heartless, and so much more. Was it because he never got to tell him how much he really cared for his most beloved friend? Or was it the fact that he did not understand what truly happened that day? John shuttered at his thoughts. There was nothing he could do about it now, nothing at all. He skimmed down the page to find something that caught his eye, but not for a good reason. He looked at the article, frowning angrily.

_Sherlock's Companion Obsessed? _

_Will He Ever Believe the Real Truth?_

Though the article angered him it was the signature that angered him more. That horrible reporter Kitty Riley had written it. John bit his lip angrily, tossing the paper into the wall, knocking over Sherlock's violin. Everything stopped then as he watched the violin clatter from its place to the floor. He rushed over to the dusty thing sitting by the window, cradling it in his arms. The strings were broken and it no longer glistened in the light like it had when Sherlock was alive. Tears ran down his cheeks as he stared at the violin.

"What do they know? How can they ever understand? I can't believe Sherlock was a fake! I can't and I won't!" John cried into the violin.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket lightly. He stared at the phone poking out of his pocket for a second. Should he even bother? Does it even matter anymore? He wiped his eyes and stared at the caller ID. It was Greg Lestrade. Greg was probably just going to ask how John was feeling on the anniversary of that horrible night of Sherlock's passing. Never the less John cleared his throat and brought the phone to his ear.

"Hello," John said, keeping back the tears that still wanted to come spilling out.

"Morning, John! Um…I'm sorry to call on a day like this, but it's very important for you to come down to the station," Greg informed the old doctor.

"What for?" John asked, frowning at the phone. Greg hesitated.

"We shouldn't talk about it like this," Greg said hesitantly. John gritted his teeth.

"Why?" John asked a little harsher.

"Just…come down to the station. It's too dangerous over the phone," Greg said, hanging up. John shoved the phone in his pocket angrily and grabbed his cane. Just what he needed, a little trip through memory lane to the station. What could be so dangerous that he couldn't discuss it on the phone? John stopped, his fingers inches from the nob of the door. There that oh so familiar word was again. It was what got him chasing after Sherlock Holmes. It was what he and Sherlock had risked their lives for. It was powerful and wonderful word. One that John wished he could hear uttered again from his dead friend's lips. John shook himself of the pointless thoughts. Wishing wasn't going to bring Sherlock back. John limped down the stairs and out to the station, running his fingers along the phone in his pocket as he remembered the text from the very first time they met.

_Could be Dangerous- SH_

* * *

**Yeah, I know I've re-written this at least a bazzilion times now, but I'm never satisfied with it. Hopefully I'll be happy with it, but we'll see.**


	2. The Fake

It was exactly how John had left it three years ago. Donovan was still wearing men's deodorant and Andersan was still (Like what Sherlock used to say) lowering the IQ of the entire block. They both sat on a desk, whispering as John came by. That just made his blood boil. Why don't they just say it to his face already? He knew they were talking about Sherlock. They always do.

"Still missing Freak?" Donavan laughed cruelly. John stopped, playing the conversation in his mind carefully. He knew where she was going with this. She was going to say how she had been right all along and that Sherlock was just an ordinary man trying to make himself look good. Well, John didn't believe that and he refused to speak with anyone who did, but he couldn't keep silent anymore. He turned on his heal, a dangerous smile crossing his face.

"Yes, Donavan, you were right," John stated, bile rising in the back of his throat from uttering such poison. Donavan and Anderson looked at him in surprise. John smirked at them, nodding at the sidewalk just visible through the open doors of the Yard. "He put a body there all right! He killed himself and he's never coming back!" Wanting to avoid the two idiots, John limped quickly away from the two of them, leaving them with his poisonous words until he came to Greg's office. It wasn't very clean actually when he thought about it the room was always cluttered, but at least before you could walk in without stepping on stale pretzels! Papers were all over and coffee was spilt on most of them. Files were flung all over. It looked like a rat's nest. Then in the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of something. It was a folder marked with a picture and a name. John lifted it up and his stomach knotted as he stared at the file. It was a file for Sherlock Holmes! He opened it with his shaking fingers to find photos of Sherlock from many of his old cases and photos from the fall. John closed his eyes, looking away from the photo of Sherlock's dead bloody body. He could still see and smell the blood and those horrible dead eyes staring out into the distance.

"Ah, John, there you are!" Greg shouted, coming through the door and locking it behind him. His face turned grim and he took the file from John.

"What do you want?" John asked in the most unfriendly voice he could muster. He disliked leaving the flat without being informed why. It made him nervous. Who knows what demons could be waiting for revenge on the doctor for past cases? Greg shuffled over to his desk, taking out another file marked with the name of an assassin who had been living near the flat once upon a time.

"Alright, John, this is an assassin that I believe you remember seeing a lot helping Mrs. Hudson in 221B," Greg started, handing John a file. John stared at the picture. He remembered him well. The man was always assisting Mrs. Hudson when she needed the help. He seemed like a good man.

"What does it have to do with me?" John asked. Greg shoved both Sherlock's and Moriarty's files over to him.

"It just doesn't have to do with you! It has to do with you, Sherlock, and Moriarty," Greg shouted. John's eyes widened.

"Where are you going with this?" John asked, getting a little uncomfortable. He thought this was over with. He thought that the case was closed. Why was Greg bringing up bad memories now of all times?

Greg sat down in his chair and sighed, tapping at the three files.

"We have just recently caught this assassin and took him in for questioning. That's when he told us about Moriarty and Sherlock," Greg sighed. John stiffened. Assassin? What? John stared at the DI with wide eyes, taking in the exhausted form in front of him. The old DI seemed to age ten years that very second and his body shook slightly. John felt his stomach clenching now, fearing what he may hear.

"He told us that Moriarty had planned everything out from the start to frame Sherlock as a fake. That if Sherlock didn't kill himself Moriarty's assassins would kill both Mrs. Hudson, Me, and You," Greg uttered, a pained expression crossing his face. Everything grew into a whirlwind of dizziness. John dropped into the nearest chair in shock. His head spun and His eyes threatened to reveal the stinging tears the old doctor should have used up a long time ago. Sherlock died to save him? Why? Why would he ever do that? Greg kneeled down to John, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, John. We have men out looking for the other two assassins. I swear we will do whatever possible to clear Sherlock's name," Greg reassured him. John nodded, not really listening and slowly walked over to the door, leaving Greg in his office.

* * *

John stumbled slowly into his flat, slamming the door shut behind him.  
"It's my fault!" he cried, slumping to the floor. His best friend was gone all because he had been protecting _him_. John glanced over at Sherlock's violin and cleared his eyes. Pain galloped in his chest as he stared at the damaged instrument. A vision of Sherlock lifting the violin and begin playing it danced right in front of John's eyes. John clenched his teeth as the vision of Sherlock turned sour. Blood and tears slowly appeared on Sherlock's face and the detectives dead eyes stared right through John's soul. A sob left John's mouth at the sight and clutched at his heat as he stared into Sherlock's long dead eyes.

"I swear, Sherlock, I will hunt down the other assassins and clear your name!" he cried, getting up to his feet. John knew right where to start too. He rushed outside, grabbing a cab and went straight to the prison holding the assassin. He had to do this. He had to do it for Sherlock, to thank the poor detective for destroying his whole life just to save his only friend.


	3. Where are the Others?

A police officer led him through the prison until they came to a dark cell with a bald headed man dressed in bright orange. It took everything in John to keep from breaking open the cell and strangling the horrid man.

"I want information on the other two assassins," John said sternly through his teeth. The assassin looked up at John with an insane smile that made his stomach twist. That smile…it reminded him so much of Moriarty.

"That's very dangerous stuff to get into, John Watson. Are you sure you want to get into it?" he said with evil eyes. John clutched his hands into fists. There was that word again! That evil word that haunts poor John day and night. John took a deep breath to calm himself and nodded a yes to the man that sat smugly before him.

"I owe it to Sherlock," John announced. The assassin rolled his eyes, fake gagging.

"Fine, but I'll only tell you about your assassin." John nodded and waved at him to go on and tell him everything. The assassin cleared his throat and spoke deeply, "Last I heard of your assassin was that he was hiding out at that chocolate factory those two kids were held at when Moriarty started to tear your pal into pieces," he said, smiling. John remembered that case well. It was how Donavan finally got Greg to think Sherlock really was involved. John jumped up away from the cell. That's all he needed. It was time to take that monster out once and for all! John started walking away when the assassin spoke.

"Be careful, John Watson. You don't want Sherlock's death to be in vain," he teased.

"Don't worry, it won't be," John shouted, arming his gun as he marched out of the prison. John threw his cane into a bin on his way down the street. He didn't need that old thing anymore. He could feel his body warming up as the thrill of the chase, the thrill of the danger grew closer. This is the only way he can move on.


	4. The Assassin

The Factory's doors were banging in the cold wind. They had been recently opened and John knew who had opened them. He slowly walked inside, pointing his gun all around. It was dark, but he could see the glimmer of a light peeking out just ahead of him along with faint music. He tiptoed slowly over to the light, hiding behind a few boxes. There he saw a scruffy haired man with dark evil eyes cleaning his weapon in the candle light. A radio sang softly next to him. It was playing old country music and the assassin hummed softly to it. John looked away from the assassin for a second to gather his thoughts. It was time to end this. It was time for this monster to go to hell! The danger that caused Sherlock to die for him was going to die, and he was going to die tonight! John shot up to shoot when with surprise the assassin and the gun were gone. John's heart thumped as he heard the click of the safety turn off behind him. John swung around to see the assassin's dark eyes staring at him and the gun pointed at John's heart. Shit.

"Nice try," the assassin said in a low cool voice. John let out a cry and swiped at the assassin, but the killer only wacked John in the head. John gasped, falling to his knees. Blood trickled from his head down past his cheeks. The assassin approached him, but he swung out his leg, kicking the assassin in the knee and sending him to the floor. John humped on top of the assassin, throwing out his hardest punches. His victim cussed and shouted at him, trying to pull John off, but John held on tight.

"It's your fault!" John screamed, punching at the man again. A cruel laugh echoed from the assassin's lips and John's blood ran cold. The man reached out, clutching at John's throat. John gasped in surprise, coughing as air struggled to get to his lungs. The assassin sat up, pushing John to the floor and leaning in close. John spat a wad of blood in the man's face, but it didn't affect the assassin at all. He simply turned his head to the side and whispered softly into John's ear,

"I'm not the one he had given his life for." John stared up at the assassin and watched as the killer rose to his feet, kicking John with his boot. Laughter left the assassin's lips as he watched John's eyes widen in pain and tears spring from his eyes. John's heart contracted as a gun was then lifted to his head. He closed his eyes, wishing that all of this was just a dream. That he would wake up tomorrow to Sherlock's violin music playing and Mrs. Hudson shouting at the young man for shooting holes in her wall once again. That was never going to happen, however. Sherlock was gone and now John was going to be too.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John said silently to himself, tears rushing down his cheeks. The assassin tightened his grip on the trigger.

**BANG!**


	5. An Old Friend Returned

John closed his eyes, waiting for the piercing pain of the bullet to rip threw his broken heart. Hot tears burned down his cheeks as death took several small steps closer to him, chilling his body to the bone. A faint smile slowly grew on his face. At least he would get to see Sherlock again. That's what matters. He held out his hands willingly, waiting for the bullet to strike him dead. It's all over now. Before the bullet could strike him two strong hands wrapped around him. The body jerked at the sound of the gun and pushed John to the floor, rescuing John from the danger of the wicked bullet. John looked up into the face of his rescuer. His wide eyes then met the stormy gaze of a dark curly haired figure that he knew so well.  
"Sher…Sherlock?" John shuttered, staring up at his dead friend. Sherlock stared into John's eyes, breathing heavily. He yanked himself off of John, holding an arm around his waist in pain.  
"Take my hand!" he shouted, grabbing John and bolting away from the room. John jogged with him, too stunned to say anything to his beloved friend. How was this possible? Had he died? Was he in heaven, chasing after criminals once again with his best friend? The assassin broke from his shock and lifted his gun. Bullets swung all around the two as they dashed away. Sherlock swore as the bullets ricocheted off the cement floors and pushed John behind a crate. John watched in surprise as his friend pulled two revolvers from his back pockets and fired at the assassin still shooting at them. His aim was far more accurate than John remembered all those years ago. the guns went off in unison, following the assassin as he dived for cover.

"Nice try, Holmes, but you should know by now that you gotta do better than that to kill me!" the assassin cackled from behind a crate somewhere in the darkness of the warehouse. Sherlock didn't make a sound. He simply stood ready with his weapons until the man made his next move.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, watching as the assassin dived at his friend from the shadows. Sherlock instinctively turned, shooting another round at the assassin. John watched as the man smirked as he dodged the bullets with ease. How could anyone be that skilled? He dived at Sherlock again, throwing a punch, but Sherlock countered it, smacking his foot into the assassin's chest. The assassin flew into a crate, spitting and cussing.

"We have to go!" Sherlock shouted, grabbing for John again. John frowned. The assassin was right here, though! Sherlock could easily finish him right here! Why leave now?! "Now, John!" Sherlock shouted, pulling John out of the warehouse by the wrist.


	6. Goodbye, John

They ran down the street faster and faster until they couldn't breathe. It had just been like old times. The two of them together, running down the streets of London. It almost seemed like a dream; a dream neither of them wanted to wake up from.  
"I think we lost him," Sherlock sighed, still clutching his waist with a pale and very shaky hand. He turned around to John only to be greeted by a punch to the face. Sherlock flew back, collapsing to the ground. Holding his hand to his pale face he let out a moan of pain.  
"I guess I deserved that," Sherlock groaned, rubbing the blood from his nose. John punched the _dead_ man again and grabbed him by the shoulders.  
"You Bastard!" John screamed, giving Sherlock another pounding to the face. The detective didn't try to pull away, though. he let John hit him; taking the punishment he deserved for letting his friend almost get killed by Moriarty's snipers not only once but twice.  
"I've been miserable for three years thinking you were dead! How dare you! What the hell is wrong with you?" John screamed. Tears were streaming from his cheeks. All he felt was anger at the moment. Why didn't Sherlock tell him? How could he not tell his best friend? Could he really be so cruel and heartless? Sherlock stared at him in surprise. He wasn't surprised by John's angered reaction. He knew that was what he would be greeted with before he even made his way back to London. It had been in his dreams, his nightmares, and even his day dreams. He was more surprised to find his friend so upset that he was literally in tears of all things. He had prepared for the hate, not for…this.  
"I only did it to protect you," Sherlock said, rubbing gently at his waist. He suddenly was feeling a little sick to his stomach. John let go of Sherlock and slumped to his knees, sniffling and hiccupping from crying so hard.  
"You still could have let me know that you were alright," John cried louder. Rage, relief, and thousands of other emotions battered John all at once. Sherlock reached a shaky hand out to John, wrapping his arms around him. He hated the physical contact, but it was all he could think of that could somehow help calm his friend. Sherlock didn't know what he could say to sooth him, but he knew how this had to end. The assassins knew the truth now and he would only bring John harm if he stayed around. Three years of hard work and blood was now being flushed away all in one day. If only he had been faster. Then the assassins would be dead and he'd be home with John and the others. He has no choice now. He couldn't put John in anymore danger.  
"John, I have to go," Sherlock sighed, hesitantly looking into his best friend's glistening eyes. He owed John some kind of reassurance after everything, but staying was out of the question. John stared up into Sherlock's face in horror.  
"No…you...you can't," John said, quivering like a child.  
"It's the only way to keep you safe," Sherlock said sadly, lifting himself up off the ground. "You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock sighed, glancing at the ground, unable to look at John.  
"Goodbye, John," Sherlock said quickly, running away from John. Pain burst in John's chest at the familiarity of those simple words. John shook his head, wiping the tears from his eyes.  
"NO!" he screamed, running after Sherlock.  
"I'm not losing you again!" John couldn't let Sherlock leave him again, not after the dangers and adventures they had faced together. This was his chance to retrieve the life he has been wishing would return to him. Sherlock's faint figure grew farther and farther away from him. He couldn't let Sherlock go. He had to tell him that he was his best friend and how sorry he was for everything and not to mention the scolding he had prepared for the stupid idiot.


	7. Sherlock Holmes

John fallowed Sherlock into a grave yard. The moon was glimmering against the tombstones. Stars sparkled all around him like sapphires. It was everything John had seen in his dreams. John walked over to Sherlock's grave with teary eyes when he noticed that he was alone with no arrogant consulting detective.

He was about to turn away from the grave that taunted him with its cruel laughter when he saw it in the corner of his eye. Right across the grave was a bloody hand print. He frowned with confusion and looked slowly to the other side of the grave. Sherlock sat leaned up against it, panting and sweating. His hand shook against his waist as red blood seeped through his coat and squished through his fingers.  
"Sherlock?" John called, sitting by his friend. Sherlock looked up at him. His eyes were dim and tired and his whole body shook like a frightened animal.  
"Leave me alone, John," he choked out, pain was affecting his usually calm voice. John pushed Sherlock's hand away from his waist and peered at the wound, ignoring Sherlock's shouts to leave.  
"You took the bullet for me," John gasped, staring up at his friend in surprise.  
"What else could I do?" Sherlock sighed, gasping from the pain as John pressed down on the wound. "Stop! Please!" Sherlock shrieked, trying to push John's hand away. John flinched from the cry of his friend. He had never heard Sherlock beg before. It sounded so…wrong.  
"We have to get you to a hospital," John stated with worry as he pulled the corner of Sherlock's shirt up. Sherlock shoved John away with a harsh push.  
"No, John. They know I'm alive now! If I survive you will die," Sherlock cried out sternly. "I can't let that happen to you," Sherlock whimpered, averting his blue eyes from his best friend's gaze. John stared at his friend in surprise. He hardly ever saw Sherlock so distraught like this before. He smiled at his friend. Sherlock really did care. He wasn't a heartless machine like John had said so many times. Sherlock was good; good like an angel…well, maybe not that good. "I wish that I didn't have to, but it's the only way to protect you," Sherlock muttered. John noticed something slip down from Sherlock's right eye, making John realize how horrible this was for not only himself but for Sherlock as well. Before Sherlock could go on anymore John grabbed him by the shirt collar and stared into his eyes that sparkled from the tears that screamed to escape. Sherlock watched as John hugged him. John quickly noted that Sherlock was skinnier than he was three years ago and his body was trembling. Sherlock's eyes widened and his heart beat fast. He had not expected John to react to his return like this at all. He had always thought that when he returned he would be cast out from Baker Street and called a machine for leaving his only friends to grieve for him. He felt his body shaking at the thought that maybe he was just dreaming. Maybe he had blacked out when John punched him and was just dreaming of what he hoped would happen. Sherlock shuddered from the thought and forced his mind back to John, who was still hugging him. Sherlock leaned into John, wrapping his arms around his friend. He hated the physical contact, but he also felt relief by it. He hasn't been near another human being who didn't want to kill him for over three years. The change felt like his burdens were being lifted from his shoulders. John pulled away from Sherlock slowly, like he was afraid that if he moved too fast the image of his best friend would evaporate into the darkness of the night.  
"Sherlock, I don't care what people think and I don't care what people do to me. All I care about is you. I've missed you. You're my best friend and always will be." Sherlock sat there still in shock from the embrace of different emotions, but eventually shook himself free.  
"I've missed you too, John. You are my best friend as well. I'm...sorry...that..." Sherlock was struggling to say the words. He never was affected by so many emotions before in his life. It was all new to him. Sherlock took a breath and looked John in the eyes. "I'm sorry, John, please believe me," he said, hugging John again. The two of them sat together. John squeezed Sherlock a little tighter to let him know he was forgiven. John would have shouted, he would have screamed at Sherlock more for leaving him alone to fight back depression, but as he stared at Sherlock he realized the ex-detective has suffered enough already. There were faint scars on his body from fights. Some were deeper than others. His body looked like it hadn't been properly cared for since he jumped. His hair was longer and he was so skinny his bones could be seen through the even paler skin. John chewed at his lip nervously as he wondered what dangers Sherlock may have faced. How many times was his life risked while he was away from Baker Street?  
"Ah!" Sherlock yelped, yanking at his waist. John jumped from the shriek and reached a hand out to Sherlock. They had to get that taken care of and they had to do it now! John pulled Sherlock's arm over his shoulders and helped him to his feet.  
"Can you walk?" John asked. Sherlock nodded tiredly. Beads of sweat were streaming down his face now.  
"Let's go home," John sighed, smiling.


	8. Healing Old Wounds

John carried Sherlock back home to Baker Street. Sherlock's eyes were drowsy from the blood loss and John knew that he had to do something quick before he ended up putting Sherlock back into his coffin. John yanked his key from his jacket and slowly pressed it through the key whole, turning it gently.  
"What about Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock panted, leaning his head against John's as his body seemed to be growing heavier and heavier.  
"She's out shopping now. She shouldn't be home for a while so we'll be fine," John said, smiling. He still couldn't believe Sherlock was really there with him. It all seemed too much like a dream.  
John pushed the door open and helped Sherlock up the long tiring stairs to their comfy sitting room. Sherlock stared at the dusty flat in surprise.  
"Does Mrs. Hudson not dust in here anymore?" Sherlock asked, sneezing from the dust that seemed to twirl around them as they disturbed it. John dropped Sherlock down on the couch and walked to the bathroom.  
"She always said that if she ever touched anything in here you would come back from the dead and shout, _'I thought you weren't my housekeeper!'_ for the billionth time," John shouted from the bathroom. Sherlock chuckled silently, leaning back into the sofa. He had missed Mrs. Hudson so much. Her cooking and her smile. He wasn't even a dead a year before he started forgetting what she actually looked like. Actually, when he thought about it he didn't only miss John and Mrs. Hudson; he missed everyone. He even missed the idiots back at the Yard!  
"At least some things don't change," Sherlock sighed. Taking in the rest of the flat. He shook his head. How had John stayed here without going mad? John walked into the room then, holding a clean white box with a red cross on top. John dropped next to the couch and set the box on the arm chair behind him. John carefully leaned Sherlock onto his back and unbuttoned Sherlock's coat and shirt until he found the crimson bleeding wound.  
"You were lucky that it didn't hit a major artery," John said, calculating how that if the bullet had hit only inches more to the right Sherlock would be bleeding to death right now or worse. Opening the box that sat behind him, he began to look for his tools.  
"Well, that assassin was a bad shot," Sherlock joked, grinning tiredly. He could barely keep his eyes open. He felt so drained of energy, which for him was a first. John took out a few bandages and small pliers.  
"What's that for?" Sherlock asked, staring at the pliers. John sighed.  
"We have to get the bullet out, Sherlock. You can't leave it in."  
"Well, can't you go take some drugs from Bart's first?" Sherlock yelped, staring at the pliers. John groaned with irritation. Same old Sherlock alright, still trying to make things more difficult than what is needed.  
"I am not going to steal," John stated, inching closer to the wound. Sherlock shrugged away, glaring at John.  
"Then forget it!" Sherlock hissed. John rolled his eyes. It was like working with a child!  
"Chicken," John joked.  
"I am not!" Sherlock yelped, staring back at the pliers, daring them to come closer so he could shoot a smiley face into them. John gave Sherlock an apologetic smile and gave up his free hand. Sherlock glanced at it, frowning in confusion. John rolled his eyes, pulling his hand away.  
"Ready?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, staring up at the ceiling; no doubt that he was running off to his mind palace to escape the pain that would rocket threw his body. John slowly pressed the pliers against Sherlock's wound in search for the bullet. Sherlock groaned threw his tightly clenched teeth as John went on, but he kept himself still to assist the old doctor.

Soon John had the bullet out and was stitching up Sherlock's wound. John could tell Sherlock was tired as his blue eyes batted, trying to keep awake. John felt sorry for Sherlock. The poor man's been dogging bullets for three years most likely! John finally wrapped a bandage around the wound and finished closing the white box.  
"Finished," John sighed, setting the box aside and opened a bag of cotton balls to tend to Sherlock's face wounds from the punching. Sherlock opened his eyes, letting the corner of his mouth curve into a small smile.  
"Thank you," Sherlock's voice shook. John nodded and stared out into the distance as he carefully dabbed at the scratches on Sherlock's cheekbones.  
"Why were you gone for three years?" John asked him. Sherlock's smile fell and his eyes drifted from the present to the past. Images of guns blasting and endless rivers of blood passed before his eyes.  
"SHERLOCK?!" John yellped, fearing he had lost his friend. Sherlock turned back to John.  
"I'm fine," Sherlock stated, taking in deep breaths. "I...well..." Sherlock couldn't say. Blast these emotions! Three years ago he would have told his story like it was just some fact from a dictionary, but now he couldn't. Not after all the things he has seen. Finally, Sherlock gave the only answer he could give John without being pulled back into the clutches of those horrible three years. "I was hunting down the assassins so you and the others would not have targets printed on your backs anymore and i'm sorry but that is all i can tell you for the moment," Sherlock stated. John sat back, nodding in understandment. He understood how Sherlock felt. John hadn't told Sherlock everything about his military past because of how painful it was and it is clear that Sherlock's past is messing with him as well.  
"Tell me how you did it. Tell…tell me how you faked your death," John asked a little demanding, glancing at Sherlock, who was now frowning at him.  
"Why do you want to know?" he asked.  
"So I know for the next time you jump off a building," John laughed faintly. Sherlock sighed, buttoning his shirt.  
"You did see me fall and you did see my body, but you did not see me hit the ground," Sherlock started out. John sucked in a breath. Sherlock was right. A building had been in the way.  
"With the help of Molly-"  
"Molly knows?!" John gasped. Sherlock hesitated, but then nodded. John felt a rage of anger crackled threw him, but decided to hear Sherlock out before he smacked him. John nodded at Sherlock to carry on.  
"With Molly's help and the homeless network we set up the seen. When I jumped I landed safely in a garbage truck not too far from the scene. Then a member of my homeless network hit you while riding his bike to stall you. At that moment I got of the truck with the blood bags Molly had given me and set the scene. I then squeezed that small rubber ball that I was bouncing back and forth all the time to hide my pulls. When you got there the homeless network all together in disguises rushed over, pulling you away and carried my body into St. Bart's, where Molly was waiting to help me escape," Sherlock ended his tale and stared at John, waiting for the worst. "I did leave hints. Like when I jumped, my body was facing the wrong direction on the concrete. I kept trying to keep you behind the building that blocked your view. I tried to keep it as simple as possible; hoping that maybe one of you might figure it out. Please, John, forgive me," Sherlock yelped drastically, fearing his friend would leave him alone like he had done to him for three years.  
"Brilliant!" John yelped. His eyes were beaming with amazement. Sherlock stared at him, very confused.  
"What?" Sherlock asked.  
"It truly is brilliant! I guess I should be gratefully that you tried to let me know it was a fake," John sighed. Sherlock tilted his head to the side and stared at John.  
"I'm glad you know now," Sherlock sighed before shakily looking away from his friend. "Um…John, what I said in the grave yard back at the Baskerville case…I really did mean it. You are my best friend. I know that I'm arrogant, cruel, heartless, and act like a mach-" John lifted a finger to Sherlock's lips.  
"You're none of those things, Sherlock. You're my friend and I like you for who you are. If you were any of those you wouldn't have saved me more than twice, left clues for me, or died for me." Sherlock smiled as John spoke to him softly. John smiled back and rested a hand against Sherlock's shoulder. "Are you going to tell any of the others?" John asked cautiously. He knew Sherlock had risked his life for everyone so the assassins wouldn't hurt them, but they couldn't keep it quiet for long. What if something happened to Sherlock again only worse?! Sherlock stared at John, tapping at his chin. He had thought it all over before in his head, but what he thought clearly was not likely going to be 100%. Sherlock opened his mouth to answer when the squeak of the stairs stopped him cold.  
"John, I brought you a nice cup of tea!" Mrs. Hudson shouted, walking into the room. Sherlock and John yanked away from each other in surprise and stared up at Mrs. Hudson. The cup of tea fell to the floor with a crash as their landlady stared at Sherlock in surprise.  
"Sherlock?" she squeaked. Sherlock tried to yank himself up, fear scrambling up his skin for how the landlady may react, but the pain of his wound struck him hard, causing him to double over back to the couch. John caught him, patting his shoulder gently to inform him to take it easy. Sherlock stared up at Mrs. Hudson and gave her a nervous smile.  
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said in a shaky voice. Sherlock cussed silently to himself for being so weak. Why couldn't he control his emotions?! Sherlock broke from his mental rant as John tapped Sherlock's shoulder to bring him back from his frozen state. The x-detective gave John a mental thank you and turned his attention back to the stunned landlady. Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes at the detective and looked at John.  
"I didn't clean any of his things did I? Or is he here because I moved his science gear into the bedroom? I just thought that I should move it out of the way," Mrs. Hudson stated. John laughed by her reaction.  
"No, Mrs. Hudson, he's not a ghost. Sherlock really is alive," John chuckled. Mrs. Hudson stared at Sherlock. A huge smile grew over her face and several small tears rolled down her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around him tightly and kissed his forehead in a motherly fashion.  
"Oh, Sherlock, how we have missed you dear. Welcome home," she said, giving him a tighter hug. That's what they liked about Mrs. Hudson. She was a charming woman who put the good first and then moved to the complicated bad things later.  
"I'm so sorry," Sherlock's voice quivered. He scolded himself mentally for letting his emotions take over like this again. Why couldn't he talk calmly without sounding like he might burst into tears? Maybe because he felt like he was. Mrs. Hudson stroked his dark curly hair, shushing him softly like she would to a child.  
"It's alright, Sherlock. All that matters is that you're alright," she said, giving him one final hug. She stared down at the unbuttoned spot on Sherlock's shirt and gasped in shock. "OH! Was I interrupting you two?" she gasped. Sherlock and John held up their hands in surprise.  
"No! No!" they yelped in unison.  
"I was only tending to Sherlock's wounds," John gasped, pointing at the bandage around Sherlock's waist. Mrs. Hudson gasped and stared at the wound.  
"Are you alright, dear?" she asked. Sherlock nodded as she hugged him hard again. He glanced at John, who was smiling happily and mouthed for help. John laughed and asked, "Sherlock, why don't you play for us?" Mrs. Hudson nodded, wiping her eyes and freeing herself from Sherlock.  
"Thanks," Sherlock whispered to John, letting the air that Mrs. Hudson squeezed out of him return to his lungs. Sherlock lifted the violin from where it rested on the floor, surprised that John had kept it. He frowned at the broken strings and opened a drawer by his music stand, pulling out several new strings. He carefully replaced the old with the new and lifted his bow gently to the instrument. John watched as Sherlock's hands moved gracefully and music swirled throughout the flat in a beautiful melody. John leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes to the beautiful music. It felt great to here that sweet melody again. Mrs. Hudson stood next to John's chair and clapped for Sherlock as he played.

* * *

Suddenly, the door was kicked open. The music of Sherlock's melody died as a threatening vive suffocated the flat. All three of them turned around to meat three dark figures and their guns. Sherlock and John whipped out their own guns and fired. The three assassins rolled out of the way, jumping up from behind. John felt a hand reach behind him, grabbing at his mouth with a cloth that smelled of chloroform. John felt his body grow heavy and collapsed to the floor. He watched as Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson grew dark into fuzzy shadows and then slowly disappeared. The dangers had returned for them once again.


	9. Assassins of the IOU

Sherlock's eyes batted slowly as he began to wake. He felt a sharp pain in his head from where his attacker had smacked him. Sherlock yanked himself up to his hands and knees, shaking himself awake. He looked up to see Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade tied together with tape over their mouths. Mrs. Hudson eyes were filled with tears and fright as she mumbled at Sherlock. Lestrade stared blankly at Sherlock with wide surprised eyes. No doubt the man had questions he wanted answered. Sherlock crawled to their side, carefully and quickly ripped the tape off their mouths.  
"What the hell, Sherlock?!" Lestrade cried as soon as the tape ripped from his mouth. "How are you here and why was I kidnapped?!" Sherlock tilted his head at Lestrade.  
"You're welcome, Lestrade! I've been wonderful! Thanks for asking!" Sherlock stated sarcastically.  
"How are you here?" Greg yelped again, staring at Sherlock in disbelief. Sherlock groaned, glancing at Greg with irritation.  
"I'm afraid I'm a bit busy at the moment, Lestrade. I'll tell you later," Sherlock said, ignoring anything else that came from Greg's mouth. He was just reaching for the tight ropes around their wrists when the click of gun echoed behind him. Sherlock paused, slowly lifting to his feet.  
"Nice to see all three of you again," Sherlock sighed, turning to three men.  
"Well, well," said the bald headed man who John had recently met and was just recently helped out of prison.  
"Sherlock Holmes is alive and well," another man sighed. He was dressed in a uniform from Scotland Yard.  
"Not for long," said the scruffy haired country song lover that we had met in the very beginning. He pointed his gun at Sherlock, grinning. You could see the bloodlust building up in his eyes. Sherlock stayed calm, standing strait and stared at each of them.  
"I brought all three of you close to death's door before and I will do it again," Sherlock hissed. All three men burst into fits of laughter.  
"Would you risk never knowing where you're best friend is?" The country lover asked. Sherlock grew a deathly shade of pale. His head turned drastically around the room. His eyes were struck with horror as he realized that John was nowhere to be seen. "Finally catching on, Mr. Holmes?" the country lover asked. Sherlock gritted his teeth at the three assassins. His eyes blazed and his coat flapped in the breeze.  
"Where is he? Where is John?!" Sherlock barked dangerously. The assassins cackled and grinned at Sherlock with their dark eyes.  
"Here," one said, holding out a tape recorder. Sherlock watched as the assassin pressed the button and John's voice echoed on the speaker.  
"Sherlock?! Sherlock?!" John's voice echoed. The assassin dropped the recording to the floor and the others smashed it with their boots. Sherlock's body shook with rage and his eyes burned brightly as he glared at the three killers.  
"Tell me where he is or I will kill you all! This time I won't mess up!" Sherlock growled in a threatening voice that made both Mrs. Hudson and Greg shiver. The assassins stood silent for a few seconds until they finally said,  
"He is where you should have been for the past three years." Each of the assassins grinned and laughed with one another, not noticing that Sherlock had grabbed his gun.

BANG! The assassins jumped as the bullet darted across the room, killing the lights. The only light was from the moon as it glided out from the rain clouds. Sherlock slid gracefully into the shadows. He wasn't going to let these monsters get away from him a second time. The assassins looked frantically in every direction for the detective.  
"Show yourself you coward!" they yelled. Sherlock knocked them all on their backs with a two by four. The lights slowly flickered on and Sherlock stood above the tree assassins, holding his gun at each of their heads in turn.  
"It's over," Sherlock hissed. The assassins stared into Sherlock's icy eyes, waiting for their doom. Sherlock was just about to shoot when the sound of a gun popped his ears and smacked the gun from his hands. Sherlock twirled around in time to see a young man disappear down the corridor. Who was he? He was sure that he had found all the men from IOU.  
"Sherlock, behind you!" Lestrade screamed. Sherlock turned to see the three assassins grinning cruelly at him. Each of them took turns beating him until he was on the floor, soaked in blood from his loosened wound. He shivered from the pain that rocketed up his body.  
"Well, get on with it then," Sherlock groaned as all three guns were pointed at him once more.  
"Oh we will, but first I think we should burn the heart out of you piece by piece," an assassin cackled.  
"After all we must fallow Moriarty's wishes," another cackled.  
"And the only way to break your cold heart is to hurt your friends," the lead assassin said pointing his gun at Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Sherlock gritted his teeth. How could have he been so stupid. He should have trusted his instincts. He should have never let them know he was alive. Now everything he fought for was going to end right in front of him.  
"No! No! Take me instead! Please!" Sherlock pleaded. Greg and Mrs. Hudson stared at him. They were both surprised by Sherlock. He was willing to give his life for them? The heartless detective cared for them? It seemed too impossible to believe. Sherlock's pleas were sadly only heard by men blind with revenge. His pleas only sealed their fate.  
"Emotions are a weakness, Sherlock Holmes, caring is not a good emotion to carry." The country loving assassin whispered to Sherlock. The three murderers pointed their guns at Sherlock's two friends. All seemed lost.  
"Ah!" cried an assassin as the sound of a bullet ricochet through the room. The others turned to see a bullet pierce their buddy's chest. Sherlock and everyone else in the room then saw John, covered in mud.  
"Now, Sherlock!" John shouted, shooting at the men who stared in surprise at the doctor. Sherlock glided to his feet, grabbing a gun from the dead assassin. He shot with John at the two murderers as they scattered from him. Guns blazed and blasted from every direction.  
"Give up, Sherlock! You're a dead man!" they shouted.  
"I was for three years, but not anymore!" Sherlock yelled, shooting a man threw the chest. Only one was left. The country loving assassin hid behind a load of boxes, waiting for Sherlock. Sherlock bent over, putting his hand to his waist. His stitches were ripped clean open and he could feel a rib had snapped from his beating from before. He knew he wouldn't be able to go on for long.  
"Say you're prayers," the assassin shouted, jumping out from the boxes. Sherlock yanked up his gun and shot violently. A bullet scraped Sherlock's shoulder, but that didn't stop him from firing more.  
"AH!" The assassin shrieked, falling to the floor. He was hit. Sherlock gasped for breath, drained from the battle. He slowly approached the close to death man. The assassin had been hit in the lungs and was now drowning in his own blood.  
"It's over," Sherlock said. His face was plain and emotionless, but his eyes told another story. They showed remorse toward the dying man. He wouldn't have been dying if it wasn't for him and Moriarty.  
"Don't go feeling sorry. I'm glad to die,"  
"Why?" Sherlock asked in confusion. The assassin smiled, showing the red hot blood that was oozing between them.  
"You've become a murderer…just…just like him," the assassin gasped. Sherlock's heart stopped and his body trembled. "Moriarty will forever haunt you now." The assassin choked. Sherlock glared at him his knuckles turned white.  
"No, I will forever haunt him!" Sherlock yelled. A smile appeared on the assassins face. It was very close to looking like Moriarty's when he had died. It was just as wild and crazy. The assassin began laughing as Sherlock stared at him too stunned to move. John rushed up to his friend's side, lifting his gun to the assassins head. With a blast from John's gun the assassin's eyes flipped into white lifeless marbles and blood splattered onto the two detectives. Sherlock drew in a breath and nodding his thanks to John.  
"Where did they hide you?" Sherlock asked, holding his hand against the wound with the ripped out stitches. John let out a tired breath and brushed at the mud he was covered in.  
"They buried me in your grave," John hissed. Sherlock paled, staring at John in surprise. John noticed Sherlock's look of concern and patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, lucky for me a few grave diggers had seen the whole thing," John reassured his friend. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, glad that John was alright now.

John and Sherlock turned as Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade came over to them. John had cut their bonds during the commotion.  
"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson yelped, kissing Sherlock's cheek. Greg stood by Sherlock with questioning eyes and began to ask,  
"Sherlock how…" The DI shook his head, trailing off. "You know what? I don't want to know. It doesn't matter anyway since you're back now,"  
"I'm sorry for everything I put you all through," Sherlock said in almost a whisper. His body ached all over. Gilt was yanking at him hard. His only three friends in this world smiled at him gently.

"Sherlock, after seeing what you've been through…what you've been protecting us from I think that you've already gained your forgiveness," John stated. Sherlock grinned at each of them. Looks like this hadn't been a disaster after all. Sherlock stepped toward them to say something he wished he could have before all of this when dizziness struck him. Everyone's eyes widened in horror as the ex-detective fell forward. Sherlock felt John grab him and pull him into his arms as they sat on the floor. Sherlock shivered as his body suddenly grew cold.

"Sherlock? Stay with me, Sherlock!" John shouted at him. John's voice sounded muffled through Sherlock's ears. All he could hear was blood pounding. Lestrade's voice yelled at a phone as he called for an ambulance. Mrs. Hudson was with John by Sherlock's side, stroking his hair out of his face. He was so tired. Maybe this ending wasn't going to be as happy as the fairy tales in children's books, then again, they never are.


	10. Finale

John stood on the roof of St. Bart's. Sherlock stood at the edge. Tears were rushing down his cheeks like they had been three years ago.  
"Sherlock!" John screamed. Sherlock ignored his shouts and took a step off the edge, but John grabbed his arm, leaving Sherlock dangling off the edge. Sherlock's face was white with fear.  
"Goodbye, John," Sherlock whispered, yanking his hand away from John's trembling one. John watched as Sherlock's body slowly collapsed to the cement of the street.  
"SHERLOCK!" John screamed again. He bolted down to his friend only to see Moriarty standing in front of Sherlock's dead body.  
"MURDERER!" John screamed. Moriarty smiled and yanked his gun from his deep pocket.  
"This is just a fairy tale, John. You're the hero and I'm the good old fashion villain." The gun went off with a horrible bang and John flew up from the side of Sherlock's bed in a cold sweat. His heart beat fast and his whole body shook.  
"Sh…Sh..Sherlock!" John screamed. Greg rushed over from his seat in the hospital room. Grabbing John's shoulders, Lestrade began to speak softly to him.  
"It's ok, John, it was just a dream." John shook, remembering what had happened.  
"Where's Sherlock?" John gasped.  
"He's ok. He's right next to you," Greg said to John, nodding to the bed that John had been resting his head on. John looked over the bed to see a dark curly mess of hair resting on the white cot. IV's stuck out left and right from Sherlock, but John could see that he was alive and that's all that matters. John sighed with relief, leaning back into his chair.  
"How long have I been out?" John asked, tapping at his watch. He hasn't bothered to set it since Sherlock 'died'. There didn't seem to be a point then. John poked his head up from the watch as Sherlock tossed back and forth, sweating and mumbling to himself in his sleep.  
"About two hours now. Sherlock hasn't woken up yet though so you haven't missed anything yet," Greg sighed. John nodded, thanking Greg for his assistance. Greg nodded and walked slowly out of the room. John yanked himself closer to Sherlock's bed. He reached out his hand to stroke away the sweaty hair from Sherlock's face when Sherlock's eyes shot open and his hand grabbed for John.  
"Stop, Sherlock, it's me! It's John!" John yelped. Sherlock let go of John, shaking like a leaf. What could Sherlock be seeing? Was it what he had been through these past years? Was it something he was scared of? Whatever it was it was bad.  
"I'm sorry," Sherlock whimpered, still in the dream. John stroked his hair back gently.  
"It's just a nightmare," John soothed him, watching as Sherlock's eyes finally closed again.

* * *

After a few moments Sherlock's eyes blinked open again and looked at him with a controlled look.  
"Looks like we made it," he choked out with a small smile. John nodded and sat on Sherlock's bed.  
"Yep, London's peaceful again," John sighed.  
"Ugh, peace is boring," Sherlock grumbled. John laughed and looked over at his friend.  
"Yeah, well would you rather be dogging evil henchmen until the end of the world? John asked him. Sherlock's back straightened.  
"Definitely not! I've spent three years doing that and I think I'll stick to my usual cases," Sherlock mumbled, reaching for his phone that Lestrade had brought for him.  
"Well that doesn't narrow it down," John teased. Sherlock laughed and skimmed through Scotland Yard's case files that he hacked into. John was just about to snatch the phone from Sherlock before he could find a new case for them, when the door slammed open. A male nurse with dark hair walked in with a dish of fresh apples and other fruit. He dropped the plate onto Sherlock's bed and gave him a cruel smile.  
"Sorry for intruding," he said. He didn't look very sorry.  
"Um…it's fine. My friend and I were trying to find a distraction anyway," John told him, snatching the phone from Sherlock. The man only chuckled and glanced at the detective laying in the bed.  
"Such a loyal friendship between you two, the stuff of fairy tales," the man sighed before walking out of the room. John's ears popped at the sound of the familiar saying. John looked back to Sherlock to see that his face was ragged with shock. He was staring at a red apple.  
"What's wrong?" John asked him. Sherlock looked up at John and slowly turned the apple around with a shaky hand. Three letters were carved into the apple. John's face paled and the two of them stared back at the door way. The apple dropped to the floor, showing the side with the carving,  
IOU

* * *

**Am I happier with this re-do? Yes, but I'm still not happy with the story line. Hmmm...what do you guys think?**


End file.
